Gotta say, I thought this was a bit disappointing for Nick Hornby. Slam has a very beige blurb on the back cover. The premise of a talking Tony Hawke poster is lame beyond belief. The tale of teenage pregancy is cliche beyond reckoning.
But High Fidelity and Fever Pitch were such good treatments of what otherwise could be considered cliche topics the midlife crisis of an underachieving music fan (who doesn't know one of them? or isn't one of them?) and the difficulties of being a passionate football supporter. Plus they made for some fanbloodytastic stimulus for films. John Cusak? Hell yeah! Colin Firth? Uh-huh! There is an extra B in Hornby films.
So I decided to give Slam a bash.
And was underwhelmed. Usually, Hornby writes with bite and pith and moments of clarity of recognition of one's own life on the page. With Slam, his first "teenage" fiction he has dumbed himself down. I would have thought as an English teacher in his previous life that he would have known that in order to write a really good novel that will appeal to teenagers you SHOULD NOT DUMB DOWN. EVER.
The crazy narrative structure and time travel governed by a poster that regurgitates the autobiography of the world's most famous skater make the book a little more complex, but not more interesting. Having said that though, the characters were slightly compelling. Not in a Harry Potter or Lyra Belaqua or Eliza Bennett Need-To-Know-What-Happens-NOW kind of way. But in a Oh-It's-Bedtime-I-Might-See-What-Happens-To-These-Kiddies kind of way.
If I had a job in a bookshop, this is NOT one that I would put a staff recommends sticker onto.
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